Mick held the book open on his knees and did not say anything for a while.
"Bertie's your dad?" he said.
"Yeah. He lives in Allentown. He drives for UPS. He was a baby in '61." Calvert looked at the ridge. "My grandfather never told him either. Never told anybody. I asked my grandmother, after I found it. She cried. She said she knew he went somewhere Saturday mornings for about fifteen years, with the car full of grocery bags, and she always thought it was church stuff. She said she never asked. She said that's how it was with men from the mines. You didn't ask."
"Groceries every Saturday," Mick said. "For fifteen years."
"I think so."
"My grandma used to say," Mick began, and then stopped, and started again. "When I was little. She'd say we had a guardian angel that came on Saturdays. I thought it was a joke. Like a church thing. I thought she meant God." He closed the book, very gently. "She's still alive. My grandma. She's in Broad Mountain Manor out on 54. She's eighty-one. She still knits. She can't see good anymore but she still knits. Mostly she does it by feel." He looked down at the cardigan, at the cable down the front, the two brothers. "That's hers. That's definitely hers."
"I didn't know," Calvert said. "When I wore it. I swear I didn't know whose it was. I just knew it was his."
"I know you didn't." Mick handed the book back. Then he said, "Can you take that out there? To the Manor? After this is over today?"